Deadline
by IthildinGalad3
Summary: "Greg, look at me. I write the stories like I see them, like I know them. I know things, Greg, things I see, things I've observed, you know this!" Sherlock Holmes is a fantastic crime reporter, known for his detailed and gory reports on murders no one should know about. Dr John Watson can no longer perform surgeries. Somehow, they meet in the middle.


**Hello all! Just a quick summary, and warnings, and disclaimers. **

**This is a story I had in my head for a while, though not with the characters from BBC's Sherlock (which I don't own and by writing this, don't get money). Its rated M for triggers like suicide, self-destructive behaviourl murder, and some mild language. **

**The sexual content may or may not change but for now, here it is. Enjoy? **

xxxxxxxxxx

The view from the top of the tree was incomparable.  
Seated on a broad leafy bough and peering through thick dark green foliage, a tall, painfully thin man, probably in his thirties (though he looked younger) smoked his fifth cigarette of the hour furiously, albeit a bit distractedly.  
It was his 'alone time', time where he could process all the information whizzing in his brains.  
The view, as mentioned, was incomparable.  
From his perch some ten feet above ground, he saw the swell of the crowd move like waves dodging small sidewalk kiosks selling odd bits and bobs. He caught snatches of conversation - a hissed argument here, an excited shout there.  
He saw a little old lady pilfering a touristy postcard, he saw the shopkeeper noticing, but the shopkeeper did not raise a fuss- possibly because she was his old, addled, and senile aunt who lived with his mother a few doors away.  
The man, whose skin was as pale as his hair was dark, saw a harried-looking woman with bottle-red hair rush after said senile aunt, calling out her name.  
The shopkeeper smiled sadly, shook his head and went on about his business.  
He saw a young, slender slip of a girl dressed in pink jogging pants too loose for her, possibly because she had lost a lot of weight in the past months, judging by her pleased but determined expression.  
And her tendency to put more space between herself and the obstacles on the sidewalk than was necessary.  
He took a deep puff of his cigarette, stubbed it out on the tree bark, and immediately lit another one.  
He was halfway through it when a voice called out from below.  
"You're smoking again? You'll die before your deadline if you continue like that. Get down here you mad beanpole, before you hurt yourself. And where the bloody hell is my story?"  
Said beanpole peered down agitatedly.  
"I am working on it Greg, get off my case. And I'm smoking my sixth cigarette, if you must know, and I'm fine. Healthy as a horse."  
He waved his cigarette, dropping red hot ash below. His ensuing cough, chesty and congested, completely rendered moot his assurances.  
"Sure. Get down. I need to clear your piece on that triple murder in 1996," Greg, who was silver-haired and weather-beaten, said.  
A groan from above.  
"Did we not already go through that? Is Anderson claiming that it would get us sued by the family? Or what is it this time- that I committed the murders myself?"  
Greg sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for salvation.  
"No. Its not that, it's... Never mind. Is fine. The report is fine. Only that it would probably scare our readers half to death!" The last six words were shouted in the tone of voice a man reaching the end of his patience might use.  
From above, silence. Then a rustle, a curse, and the man dropped neatly to the ground, much like a cat, his long, billowing coat spreading out like a fan.  
Grey-blue-green eyes narrowed at Greg, who was still clenching his fists.  
"Greg, look at me. I write the stories like I see them, like I know them. I know things, Greg, things I see, things I've observed, you know this!"  
Large size 12 feet, clad in leather shoes that shone with a high gleam, paced on the cracked pavement.  
"I had access to police archives. I looked at the pictures. I read the reports that were never released to the press and public. I interviewed the one surviving victim just before he died prematurely from a heart failure. I went to the abandoned house where blood still stained the wood flooring. I did my legwork, Greg, and you know it. Why would I waste what I know on half-truths and pretty words so as to spare our readers - who know exactly what they're getting when they read our paper- the shock of reading that yes, one of the victims was decapitated and had his head sewed on, with string made of human gut, to the shoulders of another victim?!"  
At this point, the tall man's voice had risen to a near-shout, causing a small crowd to stop and look at them.  
"Shut up, Sherlock!" Greg hissed, grabbing a too thin arm. He shot the people around him a tense smile. "Nothing to worry about, my friend is an actor."  
He pulled Sherlock to a quiet corner, far too easily, it would seem, since the man was all skin and bone.  
"Sherlock. You had details no one who was not there should have. No one. And these details are true, that's whats worse. You've had the cops take you in for questioning eleven times, Sherlock. Eleven times, all for cold case murders with details which no innocent man should have. You tell me you observed, but even observation has its limits," he said in a low, urgent tone.  
"You're my best reporter, Sherlock. Please don't turn out to be a serial killer," he said, attempting a lame joke.  
Sherlock did not smile, but his furious expression relaxed.  
"Greg. I told you. I sometimes... see, and feel things. I don't- I don't know how to explain it but I do. I know things that I shouldn't but I just- I just do." Sherlock looked frustrated at his inability to articulate himself.  
Greg sighed, the sigh of a man who has suffered too long.  
"Okay. Okay, Sherlock. I trust you. I'll run the story. But if the cops call you in again..."  
"I'll tell them the truth, like I always do." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, full, cupids-bow lips set in a thin line, his cheekbones stark and high against his pale cheek.  
Greg sighed again. "Right. Call me when they call you, as always. God, I'm your editor, Sherlock, not your father."  
Sherlock did smile then. "Close enough. You're my friend, Greg, not just my boss."  
Greg shook his head. "Lord help me, I am."  
Smiling at each other, they turned and walked out of the alley, towards Sherlock's flat. They walked for a bit in companiable silence.  
"So how is the search for a flatmate going?"  
Sherlock laughed, one without mirth. "Sherlock Holmes, crime reporter extraordinaire who has been a murder suspect one times too many, seeks flatmate who would not mind late night typing, shouting, and pacing about while muttering curses against his editors. Flatmate must also be fit, male, blond, short and gay as a proverbial lord. Schyeah, sure," he scoffed.  
Greg stared at Sherlock warily. "Sherlock. Look. The last time -"  
"Yes, Greg, I know. He was a bloody wanker who broke my heart and used me for a casual shag, who probably slept others, and put me at risk for STIs, yes Greg, he was a total bastard, I know."  
Greg looked uncomfortable. "Well, when you put it like that, looks like you will have to pay the rent all by your lonesome then."  
Sherlock sighed, but said nothing.  
They walked for another ten minutes before reaching Sherlock's flat on Baker Street.  
"Sherlock-"  
"Don't, Greg. I'm fine. I'll throw away my cigarettes if they bother you so much."  
"Not a danger night, then?" Greg said in a voice that was just this side of nervous and frightened.  
Sherlock smiled, but it was not a nice smile. It was a sad, lonely smile.  
"No, Greg. Not a danger night," he said softly, and turning around, he unlocked the doors and disappeared within without another word.  
Greg stood there at the steps for too long, thinking, before turning around and walking towards the underground station.  
He would check on Sherlock the next morning, like he always would, and also as he always world, prayed that he would not find Sherlock unconscious, or worse, dead, from the cocaine.

Xxxxxxxxxx

In his dreams, Sherlock was always happy.  
He smiled freely and laughed easily, he did not feel things he should not feel. Things like rage, madness, lust, passion, grief.  
In his dreams, Sherlock was in love, and he was not a freak, who saw everything and anything from one flick upward of his unearthly pale eyes.  
Dreams are dreams, but there, Sherlock would not be seized with agonising headaches whenever he got too close to something. Something that held memories, bad memories.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock had gone to the house where a vicious triple homicide had taken place nearly 20 yrs ago. He had seen the derelict house, where the roof sagged on one side as if the weight of the horrors inside were too much even for its walls to bear.  
He had broken past the rusty padlocks, stepped across the faded police tape, and been attacked by the madness inside its blood-stained walls.  
He cried out, his head filled with a keening noise, as he felt the pain of the three victims in their last moments.  
He had seen the whole murder, played out before his eyes, like a bad horror movie he watched once with Greg, many years ago.  
He had fled the house, stumbling outside, his eyes watering and his brain on fire.  
He slumped among the weeds for nearly a half an hour, gasping, crying, choking and vomiting.  
After he was done, he drove his car back to his flat, narrowly missing killing himself in a collision with a lorry, swallowed four Vicodin tablets dry, and passed out cold.  
When he awoke the next day, he was starving, and shaking like a leaf.  
By the end of the day, he had written up the story (after hacking into the police confidential records), and emailed it to Greg.  
It was only after 74 missed calls from Greg that he called back, and Greg rushed over with two bagfuls of lean grilled chicken, salads and two economy sized bottles of Coca-cola.  
Greg had yelled at him for a long while, then relented and watched him scarf down the food.  
It was then Greg suggested he look for a flatmate to watch over him, because Greg sure as hell can't keep doing this, not with his (Greg's, not Sherlock's) wife having their first baby and all.  
Sherlock, already strung out and unstable, had, of course, taken it the wrong way to mean that Greg was tired of him, screamed abuse at Greg, and thrown a letter opener at him, which caught Greg on his forehead and left a nasty gash.  
Greg, pale with anger then, had stormed out, but halfway home he turned back, hating himself, only to find Sherlock sobbing on the carpet.  
The older man had hugged Sherlock for hours, until Sherlock finally fell asleep.  
They never spoke of it again, and the day after, Sherlock put out advertisements in a papers for a flatmate.

Xxxxxxxxx

John was bone tired.  
He was so bone tired he felt his eyeballs move slower, and even his short, blond hair felt limp and strung out.  
He had had a string of broken ribs, banged-up organs, and shattered bones from a massive six car, one lorry pile up on the motorway, and all the victims had come in in bad shape.  
He was bone tired.  
Twenty-four young and old people, male and female, black, white and Asian, had come through the swinging double doors of the A&E, all in various shapes of awful. Blood was everywhere and it was all John, as head surgeon on duty that unfortunate night, could do to save everyone with only a handful of surgeons, housemen and nurses on duty.  
They had been severely understaffed for months, and John was drained. But he sutured, sewed, patched, reset, and splinted for 38 hours straight, barked orders for half of that, and drank six cans of Red Bull to get through the night and morning.  
One surgery melded into another and it was the last victim that broke John - unbreakable, unflappable, reliable Dr. John Watson.  
A twelve-year old girl, blood flowing freely from her nose, her skull fratcured and swollen. Paramedics had seen her through one seizure, but John knew another was coming.  
He did everything he was thought to do- irrigate the wound, debridement, make sure the seizures don't come back- but something went wrong, he did not know what and all his 15 years of experience in trauma surgery and critical care could not pinpoint what went wrong.  
Her life slipped past his hands like sand on a beach and even as his body and hands moved to help her, her body thrashing and the heart rate monitor beeping incessantly, his mind went blank, detached itself like a stranger watching from outside.  
He lost her, in a matter of seconds, and could not bring her back.  
Later when it was all over, he sat outside the operating theatre, his head in his hands and tears in his eyes.  
He helped save 23 people that night, 23 people who would otherwise be dead, but he could not save her - little Melody, who loved Doctor Who and wanted to be an astronaut so she could travel in space like the Doctor.  
Her father, who had been driving and survived with nothing worse than a broken arm, did not blame him even as John told him, in a voice that did not sound like his own, that Melody was dead.  
He got home that night in his little flat, and cried. He cried great heaving sobs until he fell asleep, and then he went straight back to work.  
Only he couldn't.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Two months after the incident (as he would come to call it) John quit his job.  
He could not perform any kind of surgery, his hands shook so badly when he held a scalpel that an idiot with a jackhammer would have been more effective than he would be.  
Psychiatrists told him it would go away, but it didnt.  
John was lost, and he did not know what to do.

Xxxxxxxxx

John, as he sat on a park bench one morning, wondering if it would hurt if he blew his brains out with a bullet, did not hear footsteps approaching him, nor the thump of an umbrella on the ground.  
"Dr Watson? I'm Mycroft Holmes. I never managed to thank you that night for saving my assistant's life. She is recovering well," he heard a smooth voice say.  
He looked up, eyes bleary with unshed tears, and nodded numbly.  
"You're welcome," he croaked.  
Mycroft was tall, almost intimidatingly so for a man of John's height, and his nose was equally as long. He had eyes that bore holes into John's skull.  
"As a token of my gratitude, I have a proposition for you. I think you would rather enjoy it."

Xxxxxxxx

"Lestrade, Lestrade, Lestrade. What has your favourite little crime reporter done to us this time?"  
The voice was booming, reverberating around the cramped office, the words belying the joy in the tone.  
Greg shook his head with a grin. "I haven't the foggiest, Chief, oh, maybe one bloody million copies of The Heat sold in 24 hours?"  
Chris Trevor, or Chief as most call him, laughed loudly.  
"One bloody million! That's more than the Daily Mail and the Guardian, put together, for a week! Sure, the cops are going to want to know how we got the information but hey hey, journalists never reveal their sources, do they?"  
The rest of the room (interns, grunts, and fellow reporters) had all stood up by now, curious looks on their faces.  
Greg could not wipe the smile off, even as his heart twisted at the toll that story had taken on Sherlock.  
Chief looked around, his arms around Greg's shoulders. "Where is he? Where is bloody Sherlock Holmes? That man deserves a big, fat paycheque!"  
Greg's smile faltered. Sherlock was home, passed out for the third time that week, his migraines so bad he spent most of his time awake with his head in the toilet, heaving painfully.  
"Uhhh he's off on another lead, Chief, can't reveal sources, remember?" Greg feigned a cheekiness he did not feel.  
Chief did not seem to pick up on Greg's twitching eyes, and threw his head back in a loud "Hah!"  
He patted Greg some more, boomed his way across the office, then went back into his room across the hall, where he proceeded to gloat about the sales of The Heat to all the editors-in-chiefs of Daily Mail and Guardian, and Times, and anyone who has not blocked his phone yet.  
Greg returned to his desk, where he stared too long at the headline: "Death Came Knocking."  
The sub-header beneath read: "How three men were brutally murdered, decapitated and mutilated right in their homes by a mutual friend. The Heat's Sherlock Holmes reports from right inside the bloodstained walls."  
There was a small but fetching picture of Sherlock's face next to it, all inky curls, ivory skin and unearthly eyes.  
Greg sipped at his cold coffee, and asked himself if how long he could use Sherlock like this.

xxxxxxxx

The world was a blaze of white hot pain. From his eyes to his temples to the back of his skull, everything was pain.  
Sherlock moaned, shifting his body slowly to find a cool spot on his pillow, but there was none to be found. He felt hot and cold at the same time, sweated and shivered, and once his stomach had nothing left to purge, all he could do with the waves of nausea was to dry-heave.  
He was that close to giving up, and taking all of the painkillers in the bottle when a cool, damp cloth was placed on his forehead, and a blessedly soothing and soft voice said things to him.  
"Shhhh there you are. It's alright then," he heard the voice say. A soft rustle, and the sliver of pain-inducing light which somehow fought its way into his room disappeared.  
"Sherlock, I'm John. Your brother Mycroft sent me. Here, get up," the voice, ever so gentle, said, and strong hands propped him up like a piece of spun cotton candy.  
A straw was put to his mouth, and he made a small noise of dissent. "No. Throw up," he croaked.  
The voice, no, John, shushed him. "I'm giving you something better than that. It'll help with the pain and nausea." A small round pill was put on his tongue, and the straw made a reappearance.  
"Drink." Sherlock drank, and those same hands put him down again in a miraculously comfortable position.  
He opened his bleary eyes to see ashock of blond hair, a pornounced crease of wrinkles at the corners of the kind blue eyes.  
"Thank you," he whispered, and a smile was returned.  
And Sherlock slept.

Xxxxxxx

When Sherlock awoke it was as if his brain had gone through a reboot. Everything was new, slightly shiny, and the world looked store-bought for some reason. The pain was gone, blessedly so, and he squinted in the semi-darkness. From outside his door he heard a very, very tiny chink of teacups, so small he would not have heard it but for his insanely sharp ears.  
He slowly got up, noted that he smelt horribly of sweat, and slowly made his way to the loo, where he tossed his tshirt, grimaced at his prominent collar bones, and wiped his chest with a damp warm towel.  
The towel he used had seemed to have magically appeared. He was sure there wasn't one there before.  
Pulling another tshirt over his head, he shuffled out to the kitchen, to be greeted by a stranger with blond hair and blue eyes.  
"You're up," the man smiled, and gestured to the stool by the kitchen counter. "Sit. I'll make you something to eat."  
Sherlock stared, then frowned. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my flat?" he demanded.  
The man turned around and gave him a look which said "I make breakfast for you and you do this to me?"  
"I'm John. I was here yesterday. Your brother Mycroft sent me to be your personal doctor."  
Now Sherlock was stunned. "My what?"  
John opened his mouth "Your person-"  
"Yes I heard you, but I meant what for? I don't need a doctor!" Sherlock snapped.  
John cocked his head to one side, as if studying him. "You had a high fever of nearly 41 degrees Celcius yesterday, and you would have gotten worse if I had not been there. Anyway, doctor's diagnosis, all better now." With a smile, he reached up and put the back of his palms on Sherlock's forehead.  
The moment he touched Sherlock, Sherlock saw. Everything.  
He saw John's shaking hands on a scalpel, he saw John crying in his cramped little bed, he saw John throw out his medical books in a fit of rage, and he saw Melody, the girl who broke Dr John Watson.  
He staggered backward, gasping, as John worriedly took a step forward.  
"No, don't, don't touch me," Sherlock choked out. John stopped in his tracks, obviously confused.  
"Are you alright?"  
"Y-yes. Yes I'm f-fine. Just... Tired. And hungry," Sherlock offered lamely.  
John, obviously, didn't buy it for a second but did not push it. He nodded slowly, and continued making omelettes.  
Sliding a stacked plate of yellow, oozing cheese and eggs towards Sherlock, he watched as Sherlock scarfed down every morsel.  
He didn't say a word when Sherlock held up the plate, asking for more.  
"I... haven't eaten in three days," Sherlock admitted.  
John looked scandalised. "Three- holy shit, Sherlock, I can count your ribs from here."  
Sherlock scowled. "So I forget to eat sometimes, so what? There are other things to be done, stories to chase, deadlines to meet!" he snarled.  
John merely stared at him. "Right. So you are that Sherlock Holmes. I read your reports all the time. You write really well."  
Sherlock pointedly ignored the compliment, and went back to his food. When he was done, John picked up the plate, tossed it into the dishwasher, and continued to eye Sherlock warily.  
"You can go now," Sherlock said coldly. "I don't need a personal doctor."  
John smiled. "How about a flatmate? Heard that those are in short supply around here. Especially fit, short, blond and gay flatmates."  
Sherlock's look of surprise pleased John greatly.  
"I'm not sure about fit, but I am blond, and short. As for gay, I think we don't know each other just well enough to be sharing sexual preferences, don't you think?"  
With a sly look, John crowded up on Sherlock's personal space, earning a sharp intake of breath from the taller man.  
"But I think, correct me if I'm wrong, it might be so much fun to let you find out."


End file.
